


do not weep, do not wail, i am coming home to you

by thepensword



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Snapshots, idk how to tag this man im just thinking about girls, major character death is mipha and it happens very off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29981616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: On the creation of the Zora armor; a vignette.
Relationships: Link & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Mipha/Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Prince Sidon & Zelda, mentioned Sidon/Link
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	do not weep, do not wail, i am coming home to you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Thus Always to Tyrants" by the Oh Hellos.
> 
> More or less based on this comic I drew: <https://thepensword.tumblr.com/post/634557021230972928/22-thinking-about-mipha-and-the-armor-she-made>

The armor is beautiful. 

The polished metal of the Domain’s walls and spires gleams, now that the sun is returned. Light refracts, reflects, and there is Link, looking at himself for the first time since leaving Kakariko. The armor is beautiful, he thinks, and it was made for him by someone who loved him dearly. Betrothal armor, Dorephan had said. From Mipha, to Link. A promise, and a declaration.

Except...something in the eyes of her ghost. Something in her voice. Something in the back of his mind, wriggling out of reach where he cannot quite grasp it.

Betrothal armor. From Mipha, to Link. There’s something wrong about that, though he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Did he love her? Did he love her the way she apparently loved him?

He can’t remember. 

* * *

The metal is beautiful in Mipha’s hands. She forms it carefully—scale upon scale upon scale. Watertight. Protective. A work of art, spun of silver and lake-bottom blue. 

She holds it up to the light—nearly there, she thinks. She will need measurements soon. She isn’t sure yet how she’ll get those, so perhaps for now she will simply get as close as possible, and make adjustments later as necessary. 

“Could you get Link?” she asks politely of the guard who stands placidly in the doorway.

* * *

In a small home in Hateno, Link slips on armor set after armor set. This, from the Sheikah. This, for the cold of the Hebra Region. This, for Death Mountain.

Zelda laughs at the latter. Then—

Link slips on the armor. The armor is beautiful, shining silver and lake-bottom blue, scale upon scale upon scale upon—

“Where did you get that?” asks Zelda, breathless. She steps forward, tentative, and reaches out a hand to trace the outlines of the scales, fingers trembling and something brittle in the line of her shoulders, something fragile in her eyes.

Link pauses, and in the lines of his face is something he does not need to say out loud. “They said it was betrothal armor,” he signs at last.

In a small home in Hateno, Zelda is crying.

* * *

Dorephan remembers, above anything else, his daughter’s vibrance.

She had been fierce, that one. Fierce and gentle. Steady hands, steady voice. He remembers how she’d lit up when she told him about the armor, eyes glowing like the snails in the pools or the luminous stones on the cliffside, words spilling from her lips like bubbles frothing where a waterfall meets a pool. He’d been happy for her—perhaps this happiness had been the problem, as he had never wanted to interrupt her long enough to clear up his confusion. 

Dorephan is very, very old, and his eyes are not what they used to be. His memory, too, has faded somewhat over the hundred years that have passed. He remembers a daughter who he loved. He remembers her luminosity as she crafted that armor. He remembers her chatter—blond hair, soft hands, strong and beautiful. The armor must be small, she’d said. Hylians do not grow as Zora do. 

They’d been practically glued at the hip, Link and Zelda. Never apart. And only one of them ever speaking.

“Mipha made this,” he says, to the kneeling Hylian with the blond hair and the small, sturdy frame. “It was betrothal armor, and it was intended for you.”

He cannot be blamed for this.

* * *

“Princess Zelda. I have something I wish to say to you, if you would permit me.”

Zelda turns to him, surprised. She has not spoken much to Sidon beyond neat formalities and the polite exchanges between dignitaries seeking diplomacy; before that, she had only known him as a child, a very long time ago. She knows Link is fond of him, though, so she stops and joins him on the balcony. 

Sidon looks nervous. He wears nervousness strangely, regal as he is, but there it is nonetheless in the twitching of his fins and the drumming of his fingers on the railing. 

“I...I never meant to intrude, I want you to know that,” says Sidon, and looks out over the Domain. Below, Link is showing his collection of monster parts to some children, much to their delight and revulsion. “He is...he is special. I know he means so much to you, and I would never dare to interfere. Whatever feelings I may have...I will happily set them aside. They are inconsequential, I’m sure, in comparison to the depths of a bond such as exists between the two of you.”

It takes a moment for Zelda to process what he means but when she does several things suddenly make much more sense. “Oh!” she says, and smiles. “No. My apologies, Sidon, I did not realize you were under that impression. But, no. It isn’t like that.”

Sidon stills for a moment, and though she can only see him in profile she thinks she sees something like relief on his face. “Then you and he aren’t—”

“No.”

There is a pause, as the prince mulls this over. Then—

“I hope you do not think ill of me.”

This comes as a surprise. “Why would I?”

“Well…” says Sidon, and he turns to face her head-on, though his eyes are far away. “My sister is dead. All that remain are memories, and I haven’t many of my own. I remember her smile, I think, and the warmth of her arms when I cried. The rest is all stories. Other people’s memories, not my own. I come to the statue so I do not forget her face.”

“And?” says Zelda, through the pain in her chest.

“And...she loved Link. Now she is gone, sacrificing everything for us, so any affections of my own...it feels dishonorable, I suppose. Dishonest.”

Zelda cannot help it. She laughs. Incredulous and grieving and hopeful and disbelieving. How has so much been lost? Nothing but memories, with only her to keep them? Link’s mind in disrepair, and even the long-lived Zora so forgetful? 

“Sidon,” says Zelda. She thinks she might be crying, but Sidon does not mention it. “Sidon, she did not love Link. Well, she did, same as I, but...not like that. Not like that.”

“But the armor—

Scale upon scale upon scale. Beautiful armor, silver and lake-bottom blue. Careful hands in the night. Link is far stockier than her, but they are near enough to the same size. Mipha had needed a body to model it on, hadn’t she? She couldn’t have gotten the exact measurements, not without ruining the surprise. She would’ve made adjustments, if she’d lived long enough to finish it.

Zelda shakes her head and turns away from Sidon, looking down instead to the statue below. “The armor was never for Link,” she says.

* * *

Betrothal armor, in Zora tradition. Betrothal. 

* * *

In the pool beneath the domain, two girls swim. They should not be here—it is night, they should be resting, they have responsibilities in the morning, there could be monsters, they have told no one they are here and this could cause panic—

None of it matters. None of it matters because the water is crisp and cool and the air is pleasantly warm. Zelda sits at the edge, feet in the pool. She is talking, and Mipha is listening, because Mipha always listens. No matter what Zelda has to say—and it is usually quite a lot—Mipha always, always listens. 

She has that look on her face, Zelda thinks. That smile she only gets with Zelda. 

There is a feeling in her chest. White hot, choking. Zelda slips into the water and ducks her face beneath the surface. Shuts her eyes tight, blows air bubbles into the water until her lungs ache. When she resurfaces, Mipha is right before her, hands reaching to grab her arms, face only inches away. 

“What are you doing?” laughs Mipha. “You’re not a Zora. You can’t breathe underwater.” 

“I can’t breathe out of water, either,” says Zelda, which makes no sense but certainly feels true given Mipha’s proximity. Very suddenly, Zelda is sure that if she does not say something in this moment she will surely die. 

“Mipha,” says Zelda. The words are an avalanche. “Mipha, there is—you are—which is to say—

“What?”

No good. She is drowning. 

One question, then. Just one. And two girls, in a pool in the darkness. Hands on arms and feet intertwining beneath the surface. “Yes,” says Mipha, breathless. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Mipha’s lips were cold, Zelda will remember for the rest of her life. Mipha’s lips were cold, but she has never felt such warmth. 

* * *

The house in Hateno glows warm from the light of the fire in the hearth. There are two figures there, shadows dancing.

“Sorry,” says Link, tracing the words into Zelda’s back with his fingers. “Sorry for not remembering.”

“It’s okay,” chokes Zelda in a voice that is half gasp and half sob. “It’s okay,” she repeats, even though it isn’t. “It’s not your fault.”

The armor lies on the table now, silver scales painted gold and orange with the light shed from the fire. The reflections dance, causing the scales to seem as though they are moving of their own volition. Zelda does not look at them, choosing instead to bury her face into Link’s shoulder and sob and sob for all she has lost. 

* * *

There are hands in the darkness. Fingers intertwined. Cool fins, soft hair. Gentle breathing.

“Let’s spend the rest of our lives together,” says Mipha. 

“Mm,” murmurs Zelda.

“If I asked you to marry me,” asks Mipha after a while, “what would you say?”

But Zelda has already fallen asleep.

* * *

There is a question once asked— _can I kiss you?_

There are words whispered in the dark— _I love you._

And there is a question never asked and never answered. 

Zelda stands before the statue and stares at the carved face, lovely and dead. She smiles, and she does not weep, and whispers:

_Yes._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hm i'm gonna be honest i'm not so sure about the pacing of this one but it is what it is
> 
> hope you enjoyed! If you did, drop a comment and/or visit me on [tumblr](https://thepensword.tumblr.com)


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